A Ranger's Desire
by Bereth Dolgar
Summary: Nearly burned-alive and left alone in Middle-Earth, Faramir struggles to heal after his devastating loss. Then one fateful day, he meets Eowyn, lovelorn and wounded in the War. Can Faramir help her forget Aragorn and find true love or will an awful misunderstanding rip them apart? Rated M for smut. Note genre may change in future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Faramir's point of view**

An island within the storm of war. _That is what my city has become and I within her_, thought Faramir of Gondor sadly as he stood upon the battlement, the morning breeze lifting lightly his red-gold hair. Minas Tirith was quiet, safe and standing yet; the Host of West had left two days ago to bring war to the mountains eastward, just as the Enemy still brought war to the north and south. Faramir the island was alone, bereft of all his family: his mother, brother and father all now dead. The sun, for the first time in many mornings beat warmly on his face; he felt her golden kiss in cruel mockery of the dark shadow that lay within him still.

His heart was aching yet here he stood in a green and sunlit space, the scent of spring alive within this quiet garden of the Houses of Healing. The young man turned and sat heavily upon a stone bench, grateful for its respite. He was still so very tired and his wounds, especially the burn, pained him greatly. Nearly burned alive by his father in his madness, for five days Faramir had wandered in an evil fever, pierced by many wounds, until his King had healed him and brought him back from the very edge of death. It was a foolish wish to follow the Captains of West upon their quest when as yet he could barely walk and his sword arm was held within a sling. Patience, he needed patience, both with the healing and the wait.

He looked to eastward then across the walls, trying to see upon the far skyline the jagged edge of Ephel Duath. Somewhere amongst the black and desolate passes two small hobbits journeyed and carried with them all their hopes of victory. Somewhere farther north the King and his armies passed through his beloved Ithilien. They would not come to the Black Gate for many days. Although at first he wished he had ridden with them, desiring a swift end to his grief and the shame of his father's madness, he knew his chance for battle might yet come. Should their desperate feint to divert the Enemy fail he might still be needed to defend the City he so loved. But would they want him he wondered desperately? He was a failure. He had led not one but two disastrous retreats, from the Causeway and Osgiliath. It mattered little that they had been against overwhelming odds, had no hope of winning and that without him the losses would have trebled. No one made songs for or remembered the men who lost. _Yet_, he vowed, _defend my City is what I would do, even if I had to take up the sword in my shield hand and fight the Enemy will all the breath I had left. I failed my people twice, I pray I would not fail again._

"My Lord Steward, might I speak with you?" Hallas, the Warden of the Houses of Healing stood nearby, a look of grave concern upon his face, acutely aware the interruption would not be welcomed by their brave and grieving lord.

Lost in his dark reverie, the question from the Warden startled Faramir. It was the first time he had been so addressed. _I cannot be the Steward, I am just a Ranger. How will I ever live up to it: be the masterful Lord of Gondor, just as my father and grandfather were? Oh Boromir you should have been the one, not me! I never expected to take on this role._ He sighed and shook his head. It did not matter. They were gone and he was the Steward now.

Faramir squared his shoulders as he rose, determined to do his duty. He turned and there before him stood Hallas with another: a young woman he had never seen. Slender and tall, hair like a river of gold, she was clad in a long white robe but little paler than her grave and beautiful face. The warden spoke, explaining the Princess Eowyn of Rohan wished to address the Steward of the City. For a moment he heard little of Hallas' words, he could not take his eyes from the vision before him. He knew he had never seen such a beautiful woman before, but as his piercing blue eyes drank in her loveliness, he saw something else: sorrow and unrest. She was as fair and cold as the morning, like a pale and hesitant spring that held its breath in waiting. He thought of the snowdrops he had seen beneath the snow some few weeks past, growing defiant of the Shadow in fair Ithilien. She too was beautiful and brave, strong and stern, a daughter of kings indeed.

"I thank you Master Hallas, I will speak with the Princess if that is her wish." The Warden and took his leave.  
Eowyn looked upon the new Steward with a glance both grave and cool. When she spoke her voice was low and lilting, her Rohirric accent sounded to his ears almost musical next to the careful, mannered speech of Gondor. "My Lord, please understand it is not lack of care that grieves me. I simply cannot lie idle while my brothers-in-arms have ridden off to War. I wish to be released. I am a Shieldmaiden and looked for death in battle. Though the care here is the best for those who desire to healed, that is not my wish. I must ride to war and find honour where I can."

Faramir listened in utter shock to this beautiful woman's words. How could such a fair flower desire death in battle? How could she not wish to be healed? He saw that she too was wounded; her arm bound in a splint and fatigue clear upon her determined face. He felt pity swell within his heart. For just a moment she reminded him of his mother, another lady so lovely and so sorrowful, unhappy at being caged within the City long ago.

He gestured for her to sit upon the bench and when she had alighted, sat down himself beside. "What would you have me do my Lady? As you can see I too am a prisoner of these houses." He raised his sling in gesture, but could not speak of the greater wound, the burn upon his side from the pyre that was both a physical pain and tortured reminder of grief and loss. With an effort he schooled his features, he would not have her see how deeply he was hurt, think him a coward or afraid of pain.

Proudly the Princess tilted up her head to look him steadily in the eyes. He could see the creamy skin along her neck and a dimple in her chin. "Command the Warden to let me go." she asked simply. Faramir flushed slightly at her boldness. It was thrilling and oddly unsettling to have a maiden look on him this way. He licked lips suddenly gone dry and with an effort focused on a suitably correct reply.

"I myself am wounded and in the Warden's care. Even if I wished to wield my authority I would still counsel you to listen to him. He knows his craft, even as you and I know ours." Faramir hesitated, wondering at her response. He knew it was not the answer she desired but was the only one he could, in honour, give.

Eowyn of Rohan heaved a great sigh and as she did, the fair skin above her bodice rose and fell. He could not help but notice how very smooth and delicate was the skin upon her full and lovely breast. He found his gaze wandering even lower: there was just a shadow of a nipple straining through the soft white cloth. _Valar, what was he doing, perusing a Princess of Rohan as if she were a courtesan?_ With an effort he raised his eyes to meet her gaze again.

The lady hesitated for a moment; she was breathing just a little fast and her full lips parted slightly in surprise. _Surely she had noticed?_ Niena he was being an ill-mannered fool, but he could not help himself.

Her lilting voice rose once again but this time it was soft and halting. "But I do not desire healing. I wish to ride to war, to follow the Captains to the Black Gate." His heart lurched. Did she truly wish for death? Looking on the beautiful, face before him, he saw her bite her lip. She herself seemed uncertain of the truth in her own words.

He looked on her with pity; strove to find some words of comfort. "Princess I too know this wish, but even had we the strength to gird ourselves and that is doubtful, the host has left and the chance to follow them is gone. But the battle may yet come to us and we need to be as strong as possible to face what comes." Her proud head drooped and her lower lip trembled at the news. To his great surprise he saw a single tear roll down her cheek.

Was it sorrow or frustration that made her weep? He found he could not help himself. His hand rose to touch her cheek, to dry the tear, but as his warm slim fingers grazed her skin, she jerked and turned her head away.

_What power had she over him, to make him touch her uninvited?_ He silently cursed his fair and freckled skin that flushed redder at the thought. "Forgive me my lady, I would not see you so sorrowed. Tell me how I can help you."

Sad eyes looked to him with gratitude. "But my window does not look east and I am told to lie abed for still another week. I am so restless and cannot lie down all day." she murmured.

Faramir smiled, relieved that here was something he could do to help. "That at least fair lady I can effect. I will ask the Warden to change your room and give you leave to rise. Surely he will let you walk about the garden and get some sun and air." He saw a little colour come to her pale cheeks. The sight of the lovely flush upon her perfect skin made him feel bold himself. "You will find me in the garden also, for I have been a Ranger for many years and am more used to being out of doors. It would ease my care if you would give me company."

"How should I ease your care?" she looked doubtfully upon him but he fancied the flush spread farther, from her cheeks to her graceful throat and chest. He could see her pulse fluttering rapidly in the enticing hollow beside her collarbone. Dared he hope it was for him? Oh but he felt reckless at the thought, the life running in his veins, freer of care than he had for many days.

"Princess I say it is because you are so beautiful; so brave and sorrowful that I cannot help but wish to walk and speak with you. We have shared something few others have in this war. We both passed under the Nazgul's Shadow and the same hand drew us back."

Eowyn's face twisted suddenly. A startled look of grief came upon her at the mention of the king. She stood, about to move away. "Alas, not me, my lord!" she cried. "Shadow lies on me still. Do not look not to me for ease! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle." Her words were harsh but they did not match the look of hopeless yearning in her eyes.

Bewildered at the sudden change, he did not understand why this should upset her so but rose quickly to apologize. He bowed carefully and hoped his words would help. "I am a Ranger brave lady and my own hands have been ungentle with the Enemy for many years. I hope that in your fair company I can find gentle words again."

She seemed to hesitate, the brave shieldmaiden gone and in her place stood a fair young girl, weary and alone. She nodded her head in acceptance of his courtesy and a daughter of kings, strove to bid goodbye with a few fair words. "I thank you my Lord, for your help in this and your kind words. Perhaps we will see each other again."

With that she turned away and strode quickly back through the arches to the Houses. He watched her leave; the waterfall of fine gold hair swaying just above a curving hip, one outlined by the gently clinging white robe. He shook his head. What a contradiction she seemed to be; a proud and fearless heart within the soft and sensuous petals of a lily. He hoped indeed he would see her again and soon.

* * *

**A/N**: A few lines are the originals from the Houses of Healing, Return of the King, by J.R.R. Tolkien. Thanks so much to Immael, Saexburga, Nariel, Úmarth i Rhis Hannasferon and SisterofBattle for suggestions and encouragement. You are the best. This is my first fic. I so hope you like it.


	2. Chapter 2

Eowyn walked in the green and cool garden every day that followed. She told herself she simply needed air and exercise but in truth she found herself looking forward to meeting _him _each day. The Steward would most often be found beside the fountain, and they would walk the garden paths, in easy silence or more often in quiet talk.

At times she felt as if Faramir had cast a spell on her, so easy was he to talk to. He was a puzzle: knowledgeable about many things, lore and languages and poetry even; yet he was clearly a man of war. She knew he had been a captain of a Gondorian eored, Merry had told her that much. Yet here was a soldier speaking lightly of plants and flowers in the garden as if he were healer; a soldier with gentle eyes and quiet words. A puzzle indeed.

She thought back with a flush to the day before, when the weather had been grayer and a cool north wind came up. They had stood beside the garden wall, looking eastward. He was speaking of the fair green hills just visible in the distance but she had had a hard time following his words; she kept noticing the silky red-gold strands of his long hair, as the wind blew them about his face. She had shivered a little with the chill, she had no warmer clothes that were suitable to the City, only leggings and a jerkin and she could not wear those.

His fair blue eyes had looked concerned when he noticed that she trembled. Gallantly he had turned her round to shelter in the lee of his warm body. They stood very close for what seemed an age, she had looked into his eyes and felt that she could drown in them, they were blue as a river and just as dangerous underneath. Were there currents of desire that swirled in their depths? She was unsure. He had looked up as one of the guards approached and he asked the man to bring a cloak from his rooms.

When the cloak arrived she was overwhelmed, it was a stunning midnight blue, trimmed at neck and hem with silver stars.

"Whose was this my lord?" she had asked, entranced at its beauty. It looked richly made, fit indeed for a queen.

"It was my mother's." he had replied, a look of wistfulness within his eyes. "I remember her wearing it at the winter ball so long ago. It is too lovely not to be used and I should think its colour would suit you well."

Faramir had stood in front of her and very close as he rested the cloak upon her shoulders. As its soft embrace enveloped her she felt his warm breath upon her cheek and throat. She noticed a smell of soap and a green herb she could not name. His tunic was loose about the neck where the bandages wound across his chest; above them she saw a sheen of herbal salve and a few red-gold curls.

_Bema_, why was she noticing this man, when it was Aragorn she loved? She looked up to catch his gaze but that did not help. _What was wrong with her? _

Heedless of the sling, his fine long fingers reached up and barely brushed her throat as he did up the cloak's elegant silver clasp. At his touch she felt a warmth flood through her and a tingling in her fair flower that was frightening and thrilling all at once. Her cheeks flushed red and she felt dizzy: her heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird's wings. Would he know it was his touch and not the wind that made her tremble like a leaf?

She felt his piercing blue gaze upon her; it seemed he looked right through her and saw exactly what she thought.

The melting warmth became a raging fire as strong hands roamed lightly from the clasp to hold her shoulders. Her lips had parted slightly, yearning to be kissed. She could not take her eyes from the bow-shaped mouth that hovered closer as he bent his head just slightly. The blue eyes glittered. _Were they really going to kiss?_ It was improper but she did not care. In that moment all she could think of was the fire and the need.

Their lips were just a breath away. A warm strong chest leaned closer and suddenly her splinted arm was pressed into his side. Both yelped, her broken arm was jarred. Startled by the pain, she had stepped back. _What was she doing?_ Even a shieldmaiden didn't behave so brazenly with a man she barely knew.

It seemed the Steward too was ruing his behavior. He had stepped quickly back and moved his hands: his left arm held carefully to his side within the sling. "My lady, forgive me, your beauty is intoxicating." His warm baritone voice was rough with emotion and embarrassment. As he bowed carefully she had seen a worried and pained look within his eyes.

Confused and uncertain what to say, the brave shieldmaiden had lost her courage and simply fled.

Now Eowyn sat hidden beneath the spreading fronds of the great cedar tree, not wanting to be found; not trusting her traitorous body to school itself beside the Steward. This could not be. It was Aragorn she loved and hoped she could yet win. Now destined to be Elessar, the King, he was a lord indeed and held her heart, not the gentle Steward. It was Elessar she wished to follow didn't she?

This morning she had come to the garden late, well past the time she and Faramir would see each other. Of course he had long since gone. How ridiculous that she found herself disappointed and missing their daily talk. What had she expected, that he would sit all morning alone waiting just for her? Besides it was the King she wished to think of. Resolutely she turned her gaze past the garden wall toward the east, thinking of the Host and their peril still to come. It would be many days yet before they reached the Morannon and Aragorn challenged the Enemy in earnest.

Try as she might Eowyn could not keep her thoughts from turning back toward the Houses and the Steward of the City. She wondered that he was not married and for a moment worried that in fact he was but was simply toying with her. No she thought, he was clearly an honourable man, and valiant, a captain that men would follow but kind and gentle. There was a grave tenderness in those piercing blue eyes and a shadow of some deep sadness she did not understand. Thinking of those eyes and the feel of his strong hands upon her shoulder she longed to ease his pain, to feel his touch again and to feel his lips upon her own. Bewildered she felt every part of her come alive at the thought of him; skin aflame, cheeks on fire, even her nipples seemed to tauten. How could her body betray her so, when her heart was given to another?

She shook her head. After her wanton behavior of the day before what would he think of her? Would he think her as a spoiled princess and a rough shieldmaiden both; pouting like a child over the direction of her rooms and then brazenly looking at him and letting him touch her? _Bema_ _what was wrong with her_?

Anxious and agitated she stood and walked toward the wall, placing a hand upon the stone and looking out over the Pelennor. With a shudder she remembered the field that day, the terror of the Witch King; black and vile, the noise and clash of battle; the screams of dying men and horses. Never would she chose to face their like again. In her heart she knew that even the thought of picking up a sword was unwelcome: it reminded her of the chill and pain she felt when she had struck the blow. Before it had all been but a game, practicing with real steel yes, but not doing any harm. The reality of war was far far worse than the young shieldmaiden had ever guessed. She was lucky to have survived the battle, to have see her brother's face again and the grave, steady gaze of her love as she awoke.

Eowyn smiled then just a little remembering the feeling of Aragorn's touch upon her cold and lifeless arm. Days later it was warm again but still felt weak. Marshall Elfhelm had visited the day before and asked if she wanted a dagger to exercise with, to build up her strength and skill again. She had demurred, he seemed to accept that she might yet be tired, but really she could not admit to her commander that what she wished was to give up soldiering. She was not sure she could admit it to herself. What had changed in the past few days that she longer wanted to ride to war? Did she finally know herself at last?

Eowyn had always followed what was expected of her, done her best to be a brave shieldmaiden and practice all the drills. It was hard now to be in doubt when everyone kept complimenting her brave deeds, expecting her to be stern and hard, the warrior who would be renowned forever. Drat it, she was tired of constantly doing what everyone else wanted her to do: be the dutiful niece and sister; the brave warrior; the steadfast love waiting patiently for the King to find out if his betrothed would have him after all. Was it not time for her do to as she wanted?

In her heart of hearts Eowyn knew that what she really wanted was to find a man who loved her passionately and wildly. Someone to whom she could surrender; give in to his sensuous touch and become a real woman: a woman whose hands were gentle, were loving and willing to do whatever a man really desired. She wanted someone in whose arms she could truly melt, be held safely and forever in a strength that only a man could give. Someone to whom she could give herself completely.

Why in Arda did she picture the Steward's soft blue eyes when she thought of this?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Faramir's Point of View: **

The young Steward of Gondor hurried from his room that cool, dim morn. He passed through the Houses' ancient arches and stepped out into the green and hushed garden. It was early, there were few others there. Just it seemed the grey clad healers intent upon their errands. He could hear the fountain tinkling, his footfalls crunched lightly the gravel of the walk. As he rounded the path his heart leapt. Standing by the wall was the lithesome and elegant figure of the Princess of Rohan, clad in his mother's cloak. His heart pierced by her loveliness, loathe to interrupt her peace he stood and drank in her beauty. They stood thus, two yearning souls, for what seemed an age, and then, the wind rising she turned back to shield her face. At the sight of the handsome lord, for the first time that week, she smiled.

"My Lord Steward, well met this morn. What brings you abroad so early?"

That smile! For a man known to have poetic inclinations, at the sight he could barely speak. "My Lady… good morning. I came for a breath of air before I meet the Warden of the Keys and the Tower Guard. I must, I fear, take up a part of my new duties and the defence of City, once again."

"So soon, my Lord? Are you not still under the Warden's care?"

He smiled grimly. To him it seemed too soon as well but for a different reason. "You guess rightly that I will play truant. To be Steward is not a job I wished for nor expected. My brother died three weeks ago and now my father has fallen. I fear I am ill prepared for the role that has been thrust upon me."

Eowyn, drawn by the look of pain and uncertainty within his eyes, stepped closer then and spoke to bring him comfort. "Surely you have skills and training that will serve you well. What has your role been ere now?"

"Keep my mouth shut and do whatever my father asked." He replied ruefully. "And it seems I have not been very good at even doing that. I fear I am too stubborn to always follow orders. "

The smile lit her features once again. "Then we have much in common, my Lord. I deserted my post at Dunharrow and abandoned my Uncle's orders to follow my own path. In truth, I expect that, had I not found renown and my brother become King, I would be rightly court-martialed."

He looked up at her in dismay. "Surely a brother would not think so! You are the valiant hero of battle of the Pelennor!"

"But transgress I did. Have no fear, Eomer would not do it. I doubt he has thought of the significance of my desertion."

"Your sentence is surely commuted for your valor in battle Lady. As for me, I disobeyed my father's orders in deed and thought. My life is forfeit thrice over for letting go the Periain and their guide. My torment could not be more complete. With my father gone, it seems I must court-martial myself."

Eowyn gasped at the anguish in his tone. "Lord Faramir, you kept your men together, against fearsome odds I hear! Surely you can forgive yourself for that?"

"Nay Lady, I do not even have your option of a pardon. I lead a rout, there is no lasting honour in that."

For some perversity Eowyn wanted then with all her heart to put her arms around this grave and handsome man. To comfort him. Words would have to do. Rough shieldmaiden or no, she could not agree with his perception. "Then if you insist, what punishment will you impose upon yourself? Surely you can find it in your heart to commute the penalty of death to life in prison?"

Grave once again, the Steward looked around at the graceful arches and the green and pleasant space. "For the nonce, my power allows me only to confine myself to these houses." He looked back and now a wry half-smile now graced his face. "It seems I am forced to walk here each morning. Would that I had you as my cellmate fair lady."

The Princess gasped. Could he really mean that they should be true cellmates housed together? Alone. Unchaperoned. Surely not! An image came unbidden to her mind: a bed, a blanket and breeches on a chair. His broad shoulders unclothed, their skin smooth and warm and just a touch away. Dizzy with desire, she felt a thrumming, pulsing heat coil low within her belly. _Bema_, _how could this man do such things to her with just his words?_

His eyes were warm and full of mischief. Oh he knew what he had said. Struggling to regain her composure, she replied as tartly as she could. "Would you then counsel my brother to confine me also to these houses and the garden, for surely my crime was as great as yours?"

"To suffer the punishment of keeping a lonely Steward company and listening to his verse? To have it as a daily event, surely no prisoner of Rohan would have ever been tortured so? Twould be a great trial." A light of mischief sparkled again in his grey eyes as he found her looking up and boldly holding his gaze once again.

"Gladly would I suffer it, my Lord, I do not fear pain or hardship." He looked intently on her fair and open face; the answering laughter in her eyes. A thrilling warmth pooled in his stomach at the sight.

With an ease borne of long practice he gave an elaborate bow and offered her his good arm to walk. "Shall then I start your torture?"

She acquiesced and slowly they began to pace the paths. They talked of little of consequence for quite awhile but then, emboldened by his easy manner once again, Eowyn spoke her mind.

"You are alone, Lord Faramir. Have you no sweetheart or gentle maiden of the city to keep you company?"

"Princess for ten years I have slept on a bedroll in the wild. I have had no chance to court a maiden of the City." The serious mouth twitched. "I do, however, have a female at times to keep me warm." At his companion's look of shock and consternation, Faramir laughed. "She is ten years old and an excellent mouser. She keeps the stores of our hidden refuge clear of vermin."

Seeing her uncertainty, Faramir turned and dropped his arm, taking her hand in his. "Forgive me my Lady, I should not jest about so serious a subject."

The Princesss flushed. "It is due recompense for I am the one who boldly asked the question."

"Dare I hope you got the answer you were hoping for?" The lovely flush upon her cheek had spread. It graced her neck and the sight of it fired his blood anew. "Gondor's maidens are bashful and virtuous but stiff and set. Next to them you are the free breeze and they are stone."

Made reckless by the sudden yearning need, heedless of propriety, he turned the soft underside of her elegant wrist to the sky and brushed it with his warm and eager mouth. Eyes glittering he looked up and caught her gaze. "Lady I have never seen a maiden so lovely in all my life. Your eyes are like grey mist in the morning rising from the river, holding a promise of warmth to come. Your hair is a river of gold, surely spun in strands by the most skilled Dwarven smiths of Nargothrond."

Eowyn sighed and as if drawn by a magic spell he raised his hand to touch her cheek. His thumb brushed lightly on her parted lips. "You lips are full and ripe as the sweet strawberries that hide beneath soft green leaves in summer." He could see her pulse fluttering at her throat, her heart beating wildly below the delicate skin of her fair breast. He should not speak of it and yet he must. "Your bosom high and proud as the rounded peaks of Emyn Uial that cradled fair Annuminas."

"You are a poet my Lord." A gust of wind blew her golden tresses about her face. Awkwardly, she pulled the blue mantle closer with one hand. Their hands brushed as he reached to help her with it and shook his head.

"Not so, it is your beauty that inspires my tongue." Gazing longingly into her limpid eyes, he drank in again her exotic beauty, fair but fearless. "Princess, for me the true torture will be to stand near you and not kiss your rosy lips, your brow, your cheek, when every part of me every longs to with exquisite fire."

Lost in their own world they had not noticed the day advancing. There were now other patients and healers within the garden. Reluctantly he dropped her hand. "The greater torture still will be to have to leave your company each day. As I fear I must do now. Lord Hurin awaits."

For a moment she looked greatly disappointed, but then a Princess through and through, she schooled her features. "Then you must go Lord Faramir."

He bowed carefully and began to stride away, then stopped and turned, raising one black eyebrow raised in query "Shall I see you here for yet more punishment tomorrow?" She nodded.

Lighter of heart than he had been in many days he left behind him a vision in blue and silver.

* * *

As the early evening twilight made the snows of Mindolluin glow red-gold just like his hair the young Steward's steps slowed down. Reluctant to reach his destination, he knew it pure fantasy that putting off the arrival would change the outcome, make what he dreaded any easier. This was the time each evening the healer came to clean his wounds. Familiarity had not made the experience any easier; not the pain of being handled nor the sharper, knife-edge pain of memory. The former faded quickly, the latter did not; it merely lanced a torment that then bubbled out and could not be ignored. Fists clenched, he forced himself to lengthen his stride and screwed up his courage. How would he face an onslaught and defend his people if he could not face this?

Faramir closed door behind him and sat heavily upon his bed. _Valar he was tired_. He had spent much of the day with Beregond and Lord Hurin, hearing about the defences of the city and preparations for another siege. The only bright spot had been the morning. It had been grey and windy but to him it seemed the sun had shone upon them the garden, the fair flower of Rohan at his side. She had smiled! Oh how his heart had leapt to see her beauty lit from within, her eyes shining and her full lips curved into a gentle smile. And how dreary had the rest of the day seemed without her. They had worked all through the afternoon, ignored Lhindir's pleas to have him rest, until Hallas, a look of consternation on his careworn face, with authority had shooed them all away.

The fire in the grate was newly laid, welcoming and already warding off the slight chill in the evening air. Wearily he toed off his boots and socks and pulled undone the laces of his shirt and breeches. That much he could accomplish. Lhindir had complained just yesterday that he was doing too much with his left arm, pulling at the wound left by the Southron's dart. He slipped it from its sling, and flexed gingerly his arm out to the side. He winced, it still hurt and resigned he waited patiently for further help.

"Come in." he called as a gentle knock came upon the door. The earnest, tall young man who entered carried a basin of streaming water, jars of salve and several packets. He set them lightly on the dresser and turned to survey his waiting charge.

"Good evening Lord Faramir. How are you?" Lhindir looked carefully upon his patient's face and then dropped his eyes to the sling upon the bed. There was, the Steward realized, no point in lying.

"Tired, I admit to being somewhat tired this evening." The young healer snorted and shook his head, arms crossed upon his chest. Faramir felt for all the world like a child before his tutor once again.

"I expect you know you are overdoing it Lord Faramir. You need to rest to heal." Like a scolded child he flushed.

"I know. I will try."

"I hope so my Lord, for your own sake. I have no objections to your spending time with the Lady Eowyn, I can see how that might be restful, even enjoyable, as she is very lovely, one of the fairest things in this City. War planning, however, is not recommended. " The sharpness of his words were somewhat blunted by the knowing smile upon the young man's face. Faramir flushed all the redder. Had people seen them touch, stand too close unchaperoned, fingers and lips yearning to meet and touch? They must be more circumspect but _Valar_ it was hard; the lady seemed to have a power over his senses he could not control.

Lhindir stepped toward the bed and began to help Faramir undress; working the sleeve of his shirt off carefully without stretching out his arm. Like the moves of a dance they both knew, the healer then stood back to let Faramir stand up. Slowly and with great care Lhindir eased down his breeches, avoiding the bandage that stretched from waist to thigh.

Once unclothed, he lay down upon the bed. As he did each day Lhindir examined the arrow wounds upon on his chest and belly carefully for any sign of infection. They were clean and healing well it seemed.

"Shall I begin?" Gazing steadily and compassionately upon his charge Lhindir waited for a sign. Faramir nodded hesitantly. The young healer turned away, poured hot water into a second basin and washed his hands. He dried them on a clean towel that he then discarded in a nearby linen basket. Slowly and with great care he pulled the lower bandages back. Mercifully they did not stick, but as the air brushed against burned flesh Faramir winced. For a handspan's width along his flank, from upper thigh to just below his waist, the skin was burned; red and weeping still, blistered the near the edges. Faramir was eternally thankful he had been unconscious as Pippin beat back the flames. With a shudder he felt again the horror of awakening to find oil upon his face and hair, smoke all around and heard again the terror in his father's stricken cry. He closed his eyes against the sight and memory.

Soiled bandages discarded, Lhindir washed his hands in the untouched second basin, careful that nothing should contaminate the unprotected flesh. He began to wash the area, using clean cool water to remove what dead flesh and old ointment that lay behind.

"Ahh!" Even knowing what to expect, Faramir could not stifle the cry of pain. It hurt abominably to be touched.

"Can you bear it my lord?" Lindir's eyes were worried. He did not enjoy hurting his patient but truly there was no other way.

Faramir grit his teeth, panting slightly. "Do I have any choice?" The young healer shook his head.

"I cannot give you poppy every day lest your body start to crave it and you do not sleep without it. The meadowsweet will have to do. Do you want more now?"

"No, please just get it done." came the strangled reply. As Lhindir resumed washing, this time Faramir succeeded in not crying out. He closed his eyes and clenched his fingers so tight upon the sheets he thought it was possible to tear them

Hands washed again, young healer scooped a handful of the salve onto his fingers and began to spread the thick ointment along his upper thigh. It quenched the painful fire and the fresh smell alone made him relax a little once again. Trying to distract himself Faramir asked a question he had dared not until that moment. "Lhindir what will it look like when it is healed?" The healer's dark brown eyes looked thoughtfully up again, gauging what to say.

"It will be red for many months, my Lord, but it should fade to white in time. The skin will never be the same, as I expect you understand. It will be rough and textured differently; it has lost the layer where the skin breathes."

Faramir sighed. He was afraid as much. _What would a woman think to see it, flesh so ugly and marred_? For a moment he was lost in his unhappy musings but then a thought came unbidden. _Eowyn. Eowyn would not be afraid of it at leas_t. A shieldmaiden, stern and brave, she would not be afraid of something ugly and gained in war. He wondered anew at how a woman so lovely and so beautiful could claim to have ungentle hands. The shoulder he had clasped had been slim but shapely, the skin upon her throat soft and warm. He imagined the yielding softness of the pink lips he had touched that morning; the rosy hue of the nipples he longed to lave gently with his tongue. Warmth and blood flowed suddenly within his heated loins, stirred by the thought of her, a fair flower crowned by golden hair. Flushed with desire and embarrassment, he felt his manhood rise and swell, exposed upon his belly. _ Valar what made him react so to just the thought of her?_

As the young healer finished the last painful strokes he could not help but notice what lay beside his fingers. Mortified, Faramir turned his face away, afraid to catch Lhindir's gaze.

Lhindir, looking carefully at the wound, spoke low and earnestly. "My lord, I would not deign to remark but as a healer I must say there was some concern that with your injury there could be other damage. This is a good sign for your recovery, especially given the pain you feel right now." The young man kept his features neutral, and his patient nodded thankfully, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Clean bandages were wrapped across again and a strong arm helped him to sit up. He took the proffered nightshirt and pulled it quickly over his head, grateful that the evidence was now covered. Lhindir had thoughtfully turned his back, intent upon mixing herbs into the last of the hot water.

"This will help you sleep and dull the pain." The young healer held out a cup of steaming tea. Faramir took the cup and thanked him gratefully for his work. Lhindir bade him goodnight and left his patient to his rest.

Faramir sat back upon the bed, sipping slowly the bitter brew. It worked quickly, already he felt more relaxed and a little sleepy. He laid back his head and closed his eyes, willing his tortured flesh to ease once more. Unerringly his drifting thoughts turned to a proud fair form, queenly and elegant, graced by stars about her throat and sad starlight in her eyes. What was it about her that made him desire her so?

He did not understand but found himself again, against all reason, drawn to this headstrong creature. Why should he burn for a wild shieldmaiden so unlike the demure and gentle maidens of the court? Was it her air of independence? _Eowyn_. Even her name was exotic, exciting and unfamiliar. Barely speaking it aloud sent a thrill coursing through his veins. How should he woo her, a woman unused to the airs and graces of a land steeped in protocol and manner? It would be a challenge but the prize was great: to tame a wild shieldmaiden, to make her surrender her heart to him.

It seemed folly to be on the brink of ruin, the world's end around the corner and here he was thinking longingly of gentle kisses and gentle hands. Yet why should he not speak of it? There might be no other chance in this short life. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would tell her of his feelings.

.

* * *

**A/N **Thank you so much everyone for all the reviews and encouragement! A shout out goes to Immael, Saexburga, Nariel, Úmarth i Rhis Hannasferon and SisterofBattle for help getting the wording right. You guys as always are the best!


	4. Chapter 4

Eowyn awoke from the nightmare gasping with panic, her shift twisted up around her waist and her injured arm throbbing terribly where it lay awkwardly underneath her. With a shaking hand she reached for the cup of water on the table beside the bed.

The terrifying images would not leave her inner eye: the worm; pink and drooling; the Dwimmerlaik; black and mocking. She shuddered with relief. Gone…they were both gone and she need not be afraid again.

It was not easy with one hand, but she arrayed her shift and blankets properly around. It was still mid-night, she must get back to sleep and did not wish to call for help. Laying her head down upon the pillow, arm cradled across her chest, Eowyn settled herself again to sleep, but it would not come. Counting horses, reciting recipes, none of it seemed to work.

Long hours past and finally, as the faintest glow could be seen through the white and gauzy curtain, she drifted back to sleep, the predawn chorus of birds lulling her mind and heart. Eowyn dreamed again, the hazy, hastily jumbled dream of shortened sleep. This time it was no nightmare but confused, erratic and tortured: with meaning she did not understand.

_She was dressed in white and silver, her golden hair bound in braids and threaded with silver ribbon. All around were dancers, whirling about the great forecourt of the fountain in the City. The strains of lute and viol could be heard rising on the warm evening air. It was the Midsummer's ball and, as was the custom, the revellers all wore masks. She knew she held a mask of silver tissue; a fox it was, delicate yet fierce._

_ She searched urgently through the throng. Aragorn must be here, she had to find him; she wished to dance and was certain that when they did he would come to know his heart for true. She pushed her way past couples laughing, ladies waving painted fans and teasing gallant officers in Gondor's livery, bevies of Swan Knights in blue and silver with fierce bird masks. Aragorn must be here but seemed always to be just beyond her reach. Where was he? There were other tall and black-haired nobles here, if only she could guess his mask. _

_Her way blocked by a broad and drunken lord, caparisoned in gold and Mumak mask, she turned and bumped into another. At once she found herself held steady by fine strong hands. A warmth and peace seeped through a sable doublet where she was held fast against a lithe and lean body. Looking up, she spied black hair and a tawny mask. A hart, he captor was a hart. _

_'Sirrah..who are you?' she asked breathlessly. He smelled of pine and sandalwood, an intoxicating scent. A Dunadan, she thought, he must be a Dunadan. _

_Beneath the mask, a pair of expressive lips curved into a gentle smile. "At last, my Lady, I have you captive in my embrace. Will you not hear my plea?" His voice was muffled by the mask, but its low and cultured cadence was not that of her countrymen. The eyes behind the mask were the clearest grey, transparent with a luminescent depth that held the torch light and made it shine as starlight on a mirrored pool.. She felt surely they were eyes for one to drown in. _

_Frightened and thrilled in equal measure, she had to know who held her fast. With his height and hair and eyes surely he was a true scion of Numenor? A drift of fine black hair was barely visible above his shirt, the laces at the neck open against the warmth of the evening air. _

_The hart's hands moved to clasp her shoulders. A warmth and yearning built in her womanly core, tuned like a minstrel's lyre to his scent and strength and a potent sensuality she could not ignore. Her pulse beat wildly at her throat, whether more with fear or fascination at his unvoiced intention she could not say. _

_Her voice quavered as her body trembled, "Yes…yes I will, but first you must tell me who you are?" _

_The torchlight flickered ever more brightly within those eyes; avid and deeper grey now with desire. The smile that had been gentle became sensuous and knowing. The slightest breath of anticipation brushed her cheek as one hand unclasped from her trembling shoulder. Without its warmth she suddenly felt bereft, exposed, incomplete as if one half of her soul had fled her body. _

_The fine long fingers raised the mask…_

With a cry of longing Eowyn bolted wide awake. This time, unlike her nightmare of the earlier chill hours, the dream faded almost instantly. The hart! Who was the hart? She knew she had started to make out a face but could not call it again to mind.

The Princess threw back the coverlet. She had slept late and the sun was streaming through the curtains. Unsettled by the disturbing and taunting dream, she felt hot and grubby from sweat and too little sleep. Rising slowly, she went to ring the bell upon the wall. She would need help to bathe and dress, and must ask Ailinn what toiletries the ladies of Gondor used. She felt more than a little uncouth; her legs were no longer properly smooth and she really needed to find someone with some discrete paint and powder; she looked so pale. Finding a tray of bread and fruit had been kindly left outside her door, Eowyn drank thirstily and picked lightly at the food. She needed to cool herself, the dream had left her hot and fevered.

What should she do with her day, once again? Unused to sloth, she wanted to keep busy. Ioreth had suggested the day before that she visit in the wards and help cheer the sick and ailing men. That had been disaster. Sickened by the bloodied bandages and relentless cries of pained and dying men, she had bolted. She had felt more than a little offended when the old woman had pursed her and pronounced that clearly she was unsuited to be a healer.

Resigned to another day of aimless wandering, Eowyn headed to the garden once again. This time she left off the Steward's cloak. It was unusually warm with a brisk and foetid eastern wind. Surely that was the source of her fevered state. An eastern wind. Would it be hot from the fires of Orodruin? A shiver of fear ran through her at the thought and at once she wanted nothing more than to be held safe. There would be no respite though she knew; her brother, her fiercest protector and loving shield, was marching forward into harm.

Aimlessly she strolled past the fountain and wandered slowly along the garden paths. At this late morning hour the benches were mostly taken, with other patients sitting in the warm sun. She walked farther around the garden's end, searching for a place to sit and collect her thoughts. Puzzling the meaning of her dream again, she did not notice for a minute that the path ahead was occupied. She looked up and found the Steward standing quietly, arm in a sling and gazing at a majestic cedar tree, a gentle, half-smile of longing on his face.

All at once her bosom heaved, she could not catch her breath as the air around her felt ripe and warm and close, as shimmering with promise as it did on the summer plains.

Her nipples were achingly taught, they yearned desperately to be touched. Dizzy with need, she watched as his long and fine-boned fingers touched idly the great cedar's branches. Were a Ranger's hands rough, callused from the bow? It seemed they should be, but also nimble, they could be gentle with the fletching after all. She licked her lips, mesmerized as his hands brushed the soft fronds of new spring green, imagined them gliding lightly across her breast. How could this be? How could this reserved and gentle man ignite a raging fire within her, far beyond her yearning for valiant Aragorn? She had never pictured his hands upon her or his lips trailing wandering fire across her skin.

.

.

.

**A/N **Thank you soo much to Immy, SisterofBattle, Annafan, Aryaputra and HeartoftheArtsari for reviews and to everyone who fav'd and followed. I am so thrilled you like it. Sorry it has taken so long to update..life has been crazy. I promise the next chapter will be longer. **  
**


End file.
